What Pisses Me Off?!

Now that Thanksgiving is over, we can stop all this happy-dappy crap and get back down to brass tax—the things that piss me off. I did spend yesterday thinking about the so many many things I’m fortunate to have going right in my life. I know life could be significantly worse than it is now, and that for many out there, it is. But this is my life, and right now – I’m gonna get negative, cause I can.

There’s quite a few things that piss me off – some are long-term issues I have buried deep in my psychotic mind. Others are new and deserve just as much attention. So let’s get this thing started:

1) Screw you The Swine!! In my mind there’s three different types of flu. There’s the garden variety “flu” which everyone freaked out about back in the day (1 year ago), but now it’s seen as, “oh, you’ve only got the flu? Pshaw….dude, grow some balls, that’s nothing. Get back to work.” Then there’s “swine flu,” which will knock you out and is what my son is currently battling. It’s rough, but you can beat it. Then there’s “The Swine.” This bastard will take you to your knees, make you its bitch, tell you it loves you, then go bang your wife. My daughter had this last weekend and was hospitalized.

2) Kiss my ass Death! Yeah, I said it. Take your stupid black cape and go jump off a cliff. Seriously – you take one more of our family members and I’ll kill you while I…..oh wait….that doesn’t really make sense….

3) Last chance cat!! Jasper, our black cat pisses me the hell off. Why? Because he’s obsessed with knocking over cups and glasses. We cannot leave a cup or glass sitting alone or he will come over and knock it the hell off the table. It’s become common place to walk into a room to find a massive puddle or glass everywhere. Next time – Jasper – and I shave you and take you to Pet Smart so all the other animals can laugh at you.

4) The career decision I’m forced to make. Enough said on that.

5) Christmas makes me nuts! The materialistic nightmare that is now Christmas makes me wanna go postal on Santa’s North Pole sweat-shop. Even in an economy where we’re all counting pennies, the pressure to get out there and spend way more than you have is disgusting. If it weren’t for my kids, I’d boycott it all together and never….wait, hold on. “What’s that honey? No…no I didn’t say… But you know how I feel and… OK…OK! Just please don’t threaten to throw away the nookie jar again!” Ummm…. I’m I apparently love Christmas and enjoy buying gifts for the wifey.

6) What is it with Quitters? No, not people who quit….but “Quitters.” You know, that one sock in the pair that’s magically lost its elasticity so it’s all big at the top and won’t stay up and forces you to have to throw away a damn good pair of socks with no holes in them. Yeah – I’ve lost two pairs of socks in a week and I don’t even have kankles.

7) Cancer can suck it! Seriously…why can’t you only attack mass murderers, idiotic politicians, or Balloon-Boy’s father….OK, I took it a bit too far there, but you get my drift. The wrong people seem to always be the target and for that my friend….I hope cancer gets cancer.

8) And last, but certainly not least….yeah, you guessed it – Snuggies. You Smurf colored, backwards robe looking, piece of shit. I mean, the fleece it’s made from is not even good quality fleece. You make it impossible to sexually attack my wifey. You make sexy women look like turd smugglers. Your commercials make me want to obsessively stalk kids’ football games to find that couple in the stands wearing you so I can kick the ever-loving shit out of them in a parking lot. You’re stupid. You’re a washed up, worn out, piece of cloth that couldn’t  hack it in the bathrobe world, so you went rogue, got popular for a short period of time, and will end up a phenomenon that everyone laughs at three years from now. Oh wait…am I still talking about the Snuggie or Palin?

At Least I Still Have a Job, Right?!

Well….at least I still have a job, right?! That’s what I keep telling myself.

Yesterday I was told by my employer that I had a choice. I could take a significant salary decrease—my salary will be cut in half—or, I could resign effective December 1, and continue to receive my regular pay check through the end of February.

At least I still have a job right?

I haven’t felt emotion like that in years. My boss sounded like Charlie Brown’s teacher as he talked to me and my head was spinning as I thought about our mortgage, car payment, bills, food, my impending drug habit, and of course, my kids.

I moved my family from Virginia to Chicago for this job—one of the biggest decisions of my life. I lived in an empty house by myself on an air mattress for 6 months while my wife and kids stayed in Virginia trying to sell our house. I saw them once a month during that time, if I was lucky. I’ve busted my ass, taken the organization to a new level on many fronts……and now….

But, at least I still have a job, right?

People all over the world are being handed pink slips today, tomorrow….. People who’ve probably worked twice as hard and long as me are now sitting at home fretting over how to pull the pieces together. And my heart breaks for them.

Yesterday as I sat there I was shaking. I wanted to cry. I wanted to beat the ever loving shit out of something. I wanted my mommy. I wanted to go back in time. I wanted to give my boss shaken-baby syndrome. I wanted to never feel this helpless again.

I stood up, tucked my tail between my legs, packed my shit up, walked out of the building, grabbed a beer and shot of Jager and started my journey home. The longest walk of shame in my life. There’s nothing less manly than coming home to your family, wearing the “bread-winner” hat, and having to explain that our lives will significantly alter and that we have a major decision to make.

I’m beginning to see potential paths appearing in front of me. Some are riddled with obstacles and have risk written all over them. Others are straight, smooth roads and make the most sense. The difficult part will be thumping myself hard enough in the nuts to buck-up, pick a path and start walking down it. The other difficult part will be not letting this beat me mentally….not taking it personally….not letting it affect the way I view myself as a person, worker, father, husband. And I won’t….

So I’ll rally, figure this shit out and hope for the best. At least I still have a job, right?

It's Puke Time!

“TRASH CAN!!!!” – those were the words that had me sprinting out of bed like a mad man Saturday morning at the crack-ass of dawn. My precious little princess needed a bucket to bury her head in while she unleashed a fury of puke. She’d been puking since 1 a.m. – roughly the time my wifey got back from her birthday celebration with a friend while I stayed home with a feverish daughter.

I hate hearing her the daughter scream those words. I hate the pukes. I hate when you hold the door for people and they don’t say “thanks.” I hate pooping in public restrooms. I hate when you’re walking down a busy street and you trip on a crack and almost fall, but don’t and are then faced with having to play it off with a slight little jog like everyone’s really gonna believe that you just felt like breaking into a 14-step jog just for the hell of it on the way to work.

So she gets the trash can, pukes…..and pukes….then says, “I’m done. Wash-cloth!!!” And I take the trash can, give her a damp, cool wash cloth to wipe her face and mouth with. Then I tuck her back in bed and go sanitize the living shit out of myself.

Having a sick kid sucks. I hate it more than anything and I’ll do anything to make the kids feel better. But I can’t help but analyze the difference between the two.

Son

Usually he gets one good puke in his bed which wakes him up. Then he stand up, screams “daddy I’m throwing up!!!” while running like a naked banshee through the hall, puke spewing out his nose cause his hands are over his mouth, then he pukes all over the toilet. But from that point on – he makes it to the toilet every time. Of course he always has to announce to me…not the wifey, but me...that he’s puking.

Daughter

The princess in her takes over. She might as well say in her 14^th-century voice, “Oh father dear!!! Father!! Please fetch my golden puking pan! Oh no silly man, not that one, the one mother and I bought the other day whilst in the city. Oh good God father, the ooother one. And it better have a shine to it. I had the butler shine it and if he didn’t well I will just have to get upset, now won’t I. Now hurry up father as I am going to vomit all over it. Bring it here. Now hold my hair and turn away…..I am a lady after all.”

As a kid I remember I couldn’t throw up until I had woken my mother and informed her of the impending toilet decoration I was about to unleash. She was one hell of a heavy sleeper. As soon as I’d get her awake, I’d tear-ass down the carpeted hallway and a good 10 feet from the bathroom I’d just let it launch. Like a dog pissing in his favorite spot in the house, I was drawn to this one spot at the top of the stairs where I’d puke every time.

The wifey’s gotten better, but for a while, she would always give the kids water right after they finished puking. And I’d be all: “Shnookums. You can’t give them anything to eat or drink or else they’ll puke it right back up. You have to wait for a while to make sure the puke bug is gone.”

“But she asked for water and she will get dehydrated.”

“I’d like you to take your shirt off. I’m actually asking you to…does that mean you’ll do it?”

“What is it with you and my boobs?”

“You've got a great rack, but don’t go getting all cocky. I have been known to visually enjoy other ladies boobs.”

“Our kid is puking and you’ve somehow managed to even turn that into a conversation about boobs!!! You seriously need to go to counseling.”

So long story short…we took daughter to the Dr. They said go to the ER. They wanted to watch her overnight. They did a shit-ton of tests. Originally they thought it was a urinary tract infection and/or flu. By the time the daughter came home they were convinced it was only the flu, but still weren't sure. We get test results back on Tuesday. Until then, she’s on tami-flu and antibiotics.

Thanks to everyone who send wonderful thoughts and continually asked about her over the weekend. I can’t even begin to tell you how awesome you all are. Thank you!!

The Wife & I Discuss Pointy Bras

Wifey: “So, did you know pointy bras are coming back in style.”

Me: “Does that mean you’re gonna finally buy some new bras?”

Wifey: “You’re an asshole…just because my bras don’t have flowers and aren’t lacy and my panties don't have ‘sexy’ across the ass doesn’t mean they’re not hot.”

Me: “I never said your skin-toned skibbies weren’t hot. I was just asking because you starting talking about pointy booby holders.”

Wifey: “Seriously honey…do you have a problem with my undergarments?”

Me: “Isn’t an ‘undergarment’ like a slip or something a Sunday school teacher wears? It makes me think of my grandmother walking around the house before bed in like 18 layers of silky nastiness filled with hooks and wires and shit. I’d much prefer you to say ‘panties.’”

Wifey: “Why can’t we ever have a normal conversation anymore? Can’t you save your Mr. Funny-Man routine for the internet?”

Me: “You mean the interweb machine thingy?”

Wifey “SEE?!!!!”

Me: “All right…sorry…damn. So who in the hell would wear those pointy bra things, anyway?”

Wifey: “I don’t know…I wouldn’t.”

Me: “What about tassels? Would you wear them if they had tassels hanging off them? And you could shake your chest and make them twirl and go in opposite directions….that would be money if you did that.”

Wifey: “You really need to lay off the porn.”

Me: “I haven’t watched porn in hours.”

Wifey: “You know the kids can find that stuff on the computer, because you have it so easy to find.”

Me: *loud throat clear “interweb machine thingy” *loud throat clear

Wifey: “Did you go to school to learn how to be such a difficult person to talk to?”

Me: “No, I took bowling because asshole was full. So seriously, I haven’t even seen one pointy boob walking around in the city. I don’t think they’ve made a come-back quite yet.”

Wifey: “I’m just sayin’, I read an article that said they’re coming back.”

Me: “Since when do you read the newspaper?”

Wife: “I read the paper…you’re not around me all day, you have no idea what I read and don’t read.”

Me: “You saw it on Oprah didn’t you?”

Wifey: “I hate you.”

Me: “I seriously don’t think you like me anymore.”

Wifey: “Oh for the love of God here we go again.”

Me: “No…I’m serious. I wake up most mornings sore as hell, and I know it’s because you’re giving me badly practiced acupuncture at night. The other day, Grayson called me a meanie and I swear I saw you high-five him. And today…just today when I opened my lunch bag, there was a note in with my sandwich that said ‘die fucker’ and I’ve had a stomach ache ever since.”

Wifey: “I DID NOT high five Grayson. I would never teach him that name calling was OK.”

Me: “If I bought you a pointy bra would you wear it?”

Wifey: “Keep kicking back those beers and you might need a pointy bra, drunk-o.”

Me: “That would be awesome! It would be like a boob-flask for dudes. I could fill one with beer and the other with Jager with straws coming out of both. I wonder if that’s been patented?”

Wifey: “Idiot….”

Me: “We really should talk more often. This was nice.”

Wifey: “Sssshhh…CSI’s coming on.”

Earning Coins for the Bank of Nookie

“All right kids – you ready?”

“Daddy, we’re gonna miss it – lets’ go!!” my son screams with a tear literally creeping from his eye.

“Dude, we’re good. We’re gonna be early….let’s just go!”

Thirty minutes earlier the wifey had just left in one of our two cars to arrive early to my son’s elementary school. Tonight is the holiday play for  1^st graders, starring none only than my little red-headed rock star. The wifey bit the bullet to volunteer as an usher so that we could be guaranteed front row seats. A kick-ass move, promising nothing but great vantage points for pictures and a stunning view of all the MILFy moms scrambling to get pictures of their littler ones on stage. I promise I wasn’t looking.

So I’m at the door, fumbling through my “key bowl” looking for the one and only key to the car. And…yeah, it’s not there. Despite my repeated request that the car key serve as a stand-alone key from the wifey’s massive key-ring of no return, so that it will be free for use by whoever needs it….it has yet to happen. As a result, she took the only key we have for the car she DIDN'T take. The one I need in order to get my child to the play he’s supposed to be in for which this entire night centers around.

“We’re gonna miss it daddy!!! I knew it. I knew we’d never make it and that I’d miss it after all this practicing,” the boy screams as he kicks make-believe mommies and daddies in the air, turns red-faced, and somewhere in his mind imagines blowing us all to pieces.

“Dude…I’m on it…have I ever let you down?” The little angel on my right shoulder immediately says, “yes…remember that time that…”

“Shut up bitch!” I scream at right shoulder angel.

My son’s still crying, my daughter couldn’t care less and is pumped to score more time playing with her Lil Pet Shop critters. Me? Well I do the natural thing and call the wifey on her cell phone.

Now…out of all our monthly expenditures, the wifey’s cell phone is by far the biggest waste of money. Why? Well that’s a damn fine question…because she never freakin’ answers it. There’s been times where I’ve been with her and she opens her phone, see’s she has 8 missed phone calls and 5 voicemails and she goes, “huh?” Like she's amazed 1) someone called her, and 2) she missed it. She’ll go to work without it. She’ll plug it in to charge while it’s fucking off. She’ll have it soooo buried in her purse that it’s such a pain to dig out that she’ll just hear it ring and give up in pre-exhaustion of trying to fish it out.

Long story short…after five calls…there’s no answer.

That’s when I feel a thought coming on and coming on strong.....And then it hits!

“I’ll call @momomatic!!,” I yell!

Her son’s in the exact same play my boy’s in and they live only a few blocks away. So I call, she answers, and they agree to pick us up! Score for me!!

Outside the boy is pacing up and down the sidewalk, mumbling, crying, informing the world there’s no possible way in hell we’ll make the play, we should have all listened to him and left hours ago, and everyone within earshot is mean.

“Grayson! Do you have a watch?”

“No!”

“Do you know what time it is right now?”

“No Daddy!”

“Do you know what time your play starts?”

“DADDY!!!! No!!!”

“Then how in the name of all things SpongeBob, do you know that you’re going to be freakin’ late?”

“Cause…daddy!!! Cause it’s dark outside!!!”

We made it to the show with plenty of time to spare. My wife seated my daughter and I in our rock-star front row seats. As she handed us our program I said, “Oh…hey, before you leave…can I have the car key to the Nissan? I'd sure hate for you to leave me stranded at home without it!”

It took a sec to sink in, but when it did….I immediately deposited that “oh shit I fucked up” coin into the bank of nookie. Only 23 more coins and it’s go time!!!